


The Care and Feeding of Italian Greyhounds

by mildred_of_midgard



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dogs, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Period Typical Attitudes, pet death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildred_of_midgard/pseuds/mildred_of_midgard
Summary: Sometimes, the price of victory is more than you bargained for. After winning yet another battle, Friedrich learns that the Prussian camp was pillaged."Were...any of my other dogs found?""I'm sorry, Sire."
Relationships: Frederick the Great & His Dogs
Comments: 12
Kudos: 15
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2019





	The Care and Feeding of Italian Greyhounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lastembers (last_embers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/last_embers/gifts).



> I saw you requested Frederick the Great fic three years running and never got it. Happy Yuletide!

"The baggage train was captured? The camp ransacked?!" Friedrich was sure there was a misunderstanding. Maybe this officer was too incompetent to report correctly. "But we won!"

It was no misunderstanding, nor was it only this officer. Tales of slaughter, rape, fire, and pillage by the Hungarians kept coming, until finally the King cut everyone off mid-word, mounted his weary horse, and went to view the damage himself and demand a blow-by-blow report.

As he rode, Friedrich wrestled with the emotional whiplash. He never wanted to let himself fall in love with war, but he'd just started grimly exulting over his victory on the field of battle, when the news came.

On site, it looked even worse than he'd imagined. There was nothing but mud and blood where once there had been a camp, mud and blood and smashed remnants of chests and boxes. Fires were being extinguished, screaming and moaning men and women were being carted off for treatment if they were lucky and burial if not, pack animals were being put out of their misery, and some of his soldiers were picking through the remains for anything salvageable. There wasn't much.

The war chest was the first big shock among the losses. For all the times Friedrich had ever found himself relieved that he didn't have to account for himself to his father, this marked the first time he thought the late king himself would rather be dead than have to witness the fate of the kingdom he'd left his son.

 _I'll raise the money again_ , Friedrich swore. _See if I don't._

A worse loss was state papers containing information, such as ciphers, that he would have given anything to keep from falling into the hands of the enemy. "Eichel!" Friedrich whipped around, searching for a familiar face. His irreplaceable, inimitable personal secretary Eichel.

"Missing, presumed dead."

"But he was a civilian!"

The reporting officer merely shook his head. "They didn't discriminate, Sire. Eichel's gone."

There was a pause to let the King absorb that news. It came as one blow after another. The grief for the man he'd worked closely with for years and the feeling of loss when he thought of the secretary's voluminous output--those hurt, but they were to be expected. The final blow, though, caught him off guard. For the first time, it really sank in how much Friedrich had come to count on the man, how much of his own confidence as leader came from a small but unshakable inner circle. Friedrich had the sensation of the earth dropping beneath his feet, leaving him grasping for something solid.

 _He never let me down, and I...I let him down._ The only way to make amends now was to find out who had failed in guarding the camp today, and ensure they never had the power to make a mistake of that nature again.

"Resume, then. Who and what else is gone?"

The litany of devastation continued. By the time it occurred to Friedrich that his flutes were beyond hope, whether in enemy hands or trampled in the mud, it was almost a relief. At least that was a problem he could solve. Mentally, he was already composing the order for a replacement, when his batman Trenck approached carrying a small object in both hands. A filthy cloth covered it.

"Your Majesty."

The expression on Trenck's face, as he folded back the cloth for Friedrich to see, gave Friedrich a chill deep inside even before he knew what he was looking at.

It was Annemarie. Or rather, what used to be Annemarie. Once, one of the beloved lapdogs that slept at his feet at night and ran by his side during the day. Now, just another casualty of his wars.

Friedrich had to turn away and hide his face.

"Were...any of my other dogs found?" he asked through his hands.

"I'm sorry, Sire. We looked everywhere."

* * *

Feeling blindly for a chair in a hastily set up tent, Friedrich sank into it, fighting for control. Any general should be able to bear military reverses, and here he called himself a philosopher king. He won the battle. He won the battle!

It didn't seem to matter, just now.

If only Marcus Aurelius were here. The old Roman emperor, who endured even the loss of his own sons without betraying his Stoic principles, would know how to cope.

There was no copy of his book at hand, but Friedrich kept enough of it in memory to get by. In a pinch, he only needed to close his eyes and summon up the spirit, if not the words, of the ultimate philosopher king, as though he were here to offer advice. _Shed your tears in moderation, if you must shed them. When you've regained control, turn your mind from external events and focus it on what lies within your power: your own thoughts, your own actions._

Friedrich tried. Work was a form of meditation; that was one of the ways he kept himself going. He started making lists in his head.

Money could be replaced, flutes could be replaced, plans hidden in state papers could be changed somehow. But Eichel's loss was as bad as the dogs', in its own way. Where was he going to find a secretary willing to put in those hours, with that kind of reliability and discretion? He'd have to find one, that was all. The work wouldn't wait.

It was too hard, losing Eichel and the dogs when Fredersdorf was away. His chamberlain would have been a welcome comfort in this time of grief. A quiet voice that knew what _not_ to say, when there was nothing that could be said. A solid presence, reminding him, _I'm still here._ Better yet would have been Wilhelmine. Though he hardly saw his sister any more, since her marriage, he knew she loved her dogs as much as he did. She would understand, if she weren't so far away.

Maybe, Friedrich tried to tell himself, after a loss that cut this deep, he would have thrown everyone out and sat alone for an hour anyway, until he was fit for human society again. Everyone had known to scramble just now when they saw his face.

But his secret was this: he was never alone. When people failed him, philosophy failed him, and his hands were shaking too badly and his breaths coming too fast for the flute, he never had to look far for canine comfort. Annemarie was dependably bright and cheerful, Champion lived to perform one trick after another, and Biche, his precious Biche, would divine his moods even before he did. Somehow, she always knew when watching her frolic would make him laugh, when his face wanted licking, and when nothing would do but the unmoving weight of a loyal dog on his lap.

The tears were starting again.

Friedrich shook them off and reached for pen and ink. There was only one thing for it. He would allow himself thirty minutes to compose verse. Then he could begin to think practically about how to compensate for his losses.

* * *

A headache, or an arrow through the skull? Not even Marcus Aurelius could have worked through a migraine like that. That was what Friedrich told himself, sitting at his desk at half an hour to midnight, writing, writing, trying to make up for lost time. Letters, letters, letters. Reports. Accounts. Maybe he'd just write through the night, maybe that would be enough. The battle was only two days ago, and the army needed to be ready to march again in another two. And the hounds deserved an elegy, but he was still too raw for that. Maybe tomorrow.

There was a small commotion just outside his tent. "The King is resting," he heard. "Come back in the morning."

Friedrich sighed and got up. "The King is working. What is it?"

It was another paper, of course. "Thought Your Majesty might like to see this sooner rather than later."

He scanned the report quickly, heaved a deep breath of relief, and then read it more closely.

Eichel was confirmed alive in the enemy camp, along with numerous other civilians. Alive! Alive meant recoverable. Even better, recoverable without spending money he didn't have, since Friedrich had prisoners of his own, from winning the battle, and not a few at that. He was thankful to be spared the decision of whether to do right by Eichel or do right by Prussia. He could start thinking about arranging an exchange in place of ransom. Since they insisted on holding civilians, he seethed. Maybe he could shame them into releasing the civilians for free. He kept reading.

 _Yes, yes_...Nothing surprising, until he reached the end of the page. Then he had to read twice to believe his eyes. There were rumors of Italian greyhounds in captivity. Though the report stressed that these were only rumors, Friedrich would have snatched at the frailest straws at this point. It was the most hope the universe had given him since that fateful day.

He set the paper down and picked up his pen. Another letter was forming in his mind.

As Friedrich wrote to the enemy commander, his quill practically slashed the paper, wielded with the precision and savagery of a saber. He enumerated the Prussian losses (blotting Annemarie's broken body out of his memory), naming each and every item and individual unaccounted for after the cleanup, with all the attention to detail for which he was famed. Coffee bean grinding, his subjects called it, half admiring, half snickering.

So be it. He would grind these beans exceedingly small.

After he had described his dogs in such detail that a blind child should be able to put names to each one, Friedrich produced an impromptu treatise on the care and feeding of Italian greyhounds. He laughed with dark relish when he got the idea to model it on Xenophon's treatise on horsemanship.

His own product was merciless, calling into question the humanity of a foe that would treat innocent lapdogs as spoils of war. It was relentlessly pedagogic, thorough in its instructions for the proper treatment of greyhounds as well as the particulars of these individual greyhounds, whom Friedrich knew so well.

Finally, it sardonically implied total incompetence in the matter of dog care on the part of their current handlers. Friedrich desperately hoped that wasn't the case, but he wanted both to shame the Hungarians, and to avert the worst, if possible. Italian greyhounds were fragile dogs, despite their outward energy, and susceptible to the cold. Champion had a tender spot on the upper gum that needed extra careful brushing. Biche had darted under a horse's legs more than once. She was a fearless creature, likely to get herself killed one of these days if she wasn't watched.

(Annemarie was on her way back to Berlin. He was damned if he was going to let her lie in enemy territory.)

The following night, Friedrich dreamed that Biche had survived long enough to die from a careless omission in his letter. Then he dreamed of Champion, happy in his new home. "Come!" Friedrich called, but he didn't know the Hungarian word. He woke up trying to remember something he'd never learned.

* * *

A week later, Friedrich’s replacement flute wasn't up to par any more than Eichel's replacement was, and money was hard to find five years into an invasion. At least he wasn't Eumenes, Friedrich tried to console himself. Winning the battle, losing his baggage train, and promptly getting handed over to the enemy by his own troops. At least Friedrich could still get his men to believe in him. Or so he hoped, after yesterday's anonymous letter accusing his own batman of being an Austrian spy. He wished he didn't believe it, but he had enough reason to that he'd had to lock Trenck up.

"Where's that coffee?" he shouted. Somehow, the pot had gone empty when he wasn't looking. Trenck would have known to keep it full, but Trenck was in custody. Why were so many competent followers disloyal and loyal ones incompetent? None of this would have happened if his faithful Fredersdorf had been here, instead of in Berlin, but he couldn't be everywhere any more than Friedrich could.

Making Friedrich's mood worse was that all rumors of greyhounds had faded without any confirmed sightings, despite repeated letters. He was only just starting to break the habit of looking around for his dogs. One could get used to anything, with time. He'd have to replace them eventually, Friedrich knew, but he didn't have the heart yet.

"Here, Your Majesty!" The page who was covering for Trenck sprinted the last couple of steps.

Friedrich made the page taste it first, as a guard against poison. Then, gritting his teeth, he poured another cup of pure concentrated willpower down his throat and shoved all melancholy aside. _Just get to it_ , he commanded himself. No one could hold a candle to Eichel, which meant Friedrich had to pick up the slack.

The only good news was that the exchange of prisoners had finally gone through. The freed captives should be returning any day now. It was a fast turnaround by the standards of warfare, but, as always, an eternity for everyone involved. Friedrich drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Would Eichel be wounded? He wouldn't have put up a fight, but in the chaos of a raid, that didn't always matter.

On the day of their arrival, Friedrich was at his desk. He told himself he was chained there by work, but he knew he was filling up the waiting time with work. Anything to keep from restlessly roaming the camp, as though that would make the returning captives travel faster.

He was placing a seal on a letter to the Queen when he felt something wet on his neck. Friedrich whipped his head around at the same time as a pair of paws scrabbled on his shoulders, and his vision became a blur of grey and white.

Biche. "Biche!" She knew the desk was off limits for jumping, but she also knew that normal limits didn't apply today. "Biche. Darling."

No sooner had he gotten his hands on her squirming body, so he could cover her in caresses, than he heard a throat-clearing from behind him.

Picking her up as he turned around, Friedrich saw Eichel and his servant waiting at the entrance.

Barely knowing what to take in first, Friedrich gestured for them to come in, while he raked his eyes over Eichel, especially the hands. The secretary was moving on his own two feet, bowing, holding a box of papers in two good arms...his hands looked intact. He was fine. And he'd come straight to the royal tent, as predictable as a homing pigeon.

Something that had gone very tight inside Friedrich the last several days unknotted. Now he could breathe again. "Report." He cuddled Biche in his arms, listening with only one ear, letting himself look at Biche while Eichel talked.

"Your Majesty, have no fear, I was able to burn the cipher keys in the chaos."

Friedrich had already guessed that, as soon as he'd heard Eichel had survived the first onslaught. Much more urgent was checking Biche for injuries. Thankfully, her body was unmarred, nor could he see any more rib than he was supposed to on a well-fed greyhound.

"The Hungarians were starting fires for the sheer pleasure of it-"

Eichel's voice faded into the background as soon as a motion from near the servant's feet caught Friedrich's eye. It was Champion! The dog was huddled in a basket, shaking and refusing to leave its safety, even while he looked up imploringly at his master.

A second later, Biche was on the floor, and it was Champion being held, while Friedrich saw red and tried to comfort both dogs at the same time. 

"There, there, little one. Come here." He held the wriggling dog close to his chest, checking for injuries and weight loss and everything he could think of. He'd failed to protect Annemarie, but these two were home now, and they depended on him. "You're safe now." Pawprints accumulated on his breeches while Biche waited eagerly to be picked back up.

Eichel, who never smiled, was fighting to hold back a smile. "I can come back later, Sire."

"See that you do." Eichel could be trusted to understand. "And send for Doctor Müller! I want a full examination of both dogs." He couldn't find anything physically wrong with Champion, but Friedrich wasn't about to start taking things for granted now.

Everyone scuttled. The moment Friedrich was alone, he couldn't help himself. He was on the floor in an instant, and both dogs were climbing all over him. There was no philosophical moderation to his sobbing this time.

"I'm so proud of you, little treasures." Friedrich was laughing through his tears, barely hearing what he was saying as the words poured out. "You're so brave." He held himself as still as he could, keeping only the slow, even strokes of his hand and lowering his voice. "Good dog. Good dog." Finally, Champion, pressing himself hard against Friedrich's belly, began to calm under the petting.

Biche was a study in contrast, her tail wagging confidently while she looked her master in the eye. "You just had yourself an adventure, didn't you?" Friedrich gave her a mock stern glare, hiding the way her sleek coat and obvious joy were healing his pain and fear. "And here I was, half-mad with worry over you."

Her mouth opened wide into a big grin, as if admitting it. He could have sworn she was laughing. _The Hungarians were very excitable,_ she seemed to say, _and Champion was scared, but I knew I'd see you again. I never stopped believing in you._ She gave her tail another proud swipe and licked his hand trustingly.

Wonderingly, Friedrich stretched out that hand toward Biche. "How do you do it, Biche? How can you always tell just what I need?" Biche tucked her head underneath the hand and tossed it shamelessly, hinting. Automatically, Friedrich started scratching her favorite hard-to-reach spots. All his sufferings were amply rewarded when she wriggled in pleasure. "Well, I know you and Champion have your own language. You tell him I'll _always_ bring you home."

**Author's Note:**

> While Friedrich was winning the battle of Soor in 1745, the Prussian camp was plundered. Like Eichel, Friedrich's dogs were captured, but later returned. Some details are historical, and others are fictional.
> 
> The letter to the Hungarian commander, the "Care and Feeding of Italian Greyhounds," is semi-historical. We know Friedrich wrote at least one letter (not extant) to the enemy commander demanding their return, and we know he made it specific, naming dogs by name, but spelling out how to take care of the dogs in his absence is something I made up.
> 
> Coffee bean grinding: this analogy was inspired by a much later political caricature of Old Fritz's leadership style. I have no evidence that the analogy existed as early as 1745, but he was definitely a detail-oriented workaholic already, and I couldn't resist the affectionate ribbing. On that note, I love Friedrich and I try to depict him sympathetically--as the complex, flawed individual he was. The result is that not everything he's depicted doing is meant as something to emulate. Especially if you're anyone's boss.
> 
> Friedrich von der Trenck, Friedrich's batman, was imprisoned without a trial (not Friedrich's finest moment as enlightened monarch) after his cousin on the Austrian side led the raid on the Prussian camp, then returned Trenck's horses, casting suspicion on Trenck as an Austrian spy. His Wikipedia article and his memoirs have far more detail on his and his cousin's very eventful lives.
> 
> [ETA: Documentary evidence shows that Trenck had already been locked up before this battle, and so his account of the battle is made up. We're no longer even sure if he was ever batman at all. But hey, if he gets to write fiction, so do I!]
> 
> Biche's grave can be found at Sanssouci, next to Friedrich's.


End file.
